Time is like a ball of glass – fragile, beautiful, and temporary. It has never been so clear until now as the thread is broken with one hard swipe – eyes dazzled by headlights as the world flips over. Some part of his mind focuses even as the rest blanks but all it can reiterate is that he's in the spin cycle. It's true –the world spins and each break of his fingers is a tick on an invisible clock. Each break and snap like the soft click of sand grains exiting a swiftly emptying hourglass. He's going to die. He is going to die – and why? That seems important. Why?
Someone is screaming - right he was on the line with the hospital. Maybe he could ask them why. No, he can answer this…it's because he – The world stops hard enough to knock the breath out of him. One of his eyes is swollen shut and there is pain across the lateral… Blinking and then something cold… water. Cold water is seeping in and has covered his legs. The front end of the car is… a blurring image of the sky meeting its self. Water. He's trapped in a car nose down in the water. So either he freezes or he drowns. Perfect.
Quiet. And then.
And then.
And Then…and and and and then.
A sound like jet engines. The squeal of metal. The sensation of being lifted and the pain of his seat belt taking the full weight of his injured body. Everything blurs and then – a sigh of frustration. "You cannot operate upon his majesty. You require medical assistance yourself. Fuck." "Robots don't curse." 'Cause it's a robot or – oh it's Ironman? War Machine? Something. "I may be going into shock. Maybe a hospital first and then a chat? 'Kay?"
The metal thingy laughs before bending down and reaching a hand out to Stephen's face. Strange shivers as surprisingly warm fingers made of steel brush his rapidly bruising face. "You sound like him. My grandfather… Okay. Do not worry. I will not let you die nor lose your gift. Rest." It might as well be a command; because the good doctor finds himself out like a light even as his car is lifted. His last thought is to wonder what exactly counts as a "grandfather" to a robot and then nothing.
The hospital is in a state of chaos – well okay the hospital is always in chaos, but fuck this is ridiculous. Christine just manages to avoid a collision even as she drops one clipboard in exchange for another. A quiet hiss as she manages to give herself a wick paper cut. Of course…no. No, she can't do this. Brushing her brown hair out of her face with a hum Christine quickly casts a glance around for somewhere to hide. She's been up for 40 hours already and likely she's going to be powering through another 45 at best. She just needs a minute to breathe – and potentially curse Stephen's entire family tree from root to leaf.
Because this is obviously all his fault – of course it is. And no that isn't fair, but neither is turning the hospital into a frenzied anthill of activity. Spying the back stairs that leads to one of the quieter parts of the hospital she quickly makes the decision to hide out in a conference room. By the time she hits the third floor she bitterly regrets her recent birthday. This time last year her knees had been a little more forgiving about climbing stairs, but then again this time last year she hadn't spent so much time praying for a certain arrogant idiot.
An arrogant idiot who nearly died tonight and who even now might not be out of danger. His hands are touch and go right now. And even that was only possible because… because an unmanned blue and silver iron man replica saved him. Though of course, the only reason said replica had gone to look for him is because he needed the world renowned neurosurgeon to do something on behalf of the currently dying Wakandian prince T'Challa. Trying the door she slides into the cool room before quickly locking the door behind her. It's cold and she finds her arms wrapping around in a pitiful attempt at warmth.
It's raining. Like God turned a faucet on. Stephen always brightened up when it rain, more talkative and given to bad puns and even worst attempts at cooking. Briefly, comes the memory of long arms wrapped around her and a chapped pair of lips that taste of – fuck. That part of her life is over and she needs to recognize that. They are friends, they are colleagues, they are – they are a mess. And she loves him and if he loses his hands he will be ruined. But the only person who could possibly save them is also the person who is going to lose them. She can't cry right now. It's raining.
The rain has gone from gentle to storming and it's been two hours. Going by the clock anyway – but time seems to have gotten away from her. She should be doing something right now – maybe looking after the Prince. The android? robot? unmanned suit of armor powered by Skynet? had told her "not to allow his majesty to expire" before flying off. Was he going to get Mr. Stark or Dr. Banner? It would take an even greater miracle than either of them or even Stephen could salvage to save the Prince.
As it is the man shouldn't even be breathing – he shouldn't have a heartbeat, but he continues to … survive. Or he was clinging to life when last she checked. And the thought should have her scrambling off the floor. It really should, but instead, she continues tracing the sporadic racing of raindrops down the enormous window she sits beside. T'Challa will most likely suffer irreparable brain damage if he survives the night. It might be kinder if he just stopped breathing.
And that last thought is said in such a perfect imitation of Stephen's voice it startles a sob out of her. "God! This is such a clusterfuck!" But pulling her hair isn't going to do anything except leave her bald. She needs to stand up and – there is a suddenly sound like the world's largest Dyson vacuum wrapped in wool. The android is back and being followed by a private jet so high-tech George Jetson would have a conniption. They land on the helicopter pad across the way.
Shifting to her knees she can just barely make out the three people descending from the jet. Three people who happen to be world famous doctors and researchers on the cutting edge of technology where possibility meets reality. Christine finds herself beginning to hyperventilate and takes a minute to cover her eyes. "Fuck." Dr. Helen Cho, Dr. Hank Pym, and his daughter Dr. Van Dyke are hustling to get in the building scowls firmly etched onto their faces.
Because of course that makes sense and isn't just a heavily fatigued mind giving up. Of course, it is. How is this her life now? How? She was supposed to be at dinner with the new guy from cardiology, and – If Stephen weren't so dear to her she'd kill him. This is his fault. Because of course when his hubris finally meets karma it would take out everyone and thing within 200 sq miles. "Doctor?" And now the ceiling is talking to her. Perfect.
"Doctor, this is RODERICK. I am the artificial intelligence you met earlier. According to hospital records, you have been on-call for an extended period of time. Please rest before you collapse. You cannot provide aid if you are unconscious, and it will take time for the experts I brought to examine the patients." Huh, the robot is snarky. Wonderful. Isn't that just a laugh? And it is and she does and then nothing.
Running another scan RODERICK is assured that Dr. Christine is unconscious and gives a bemused shrug. He may need further socialization as he currently does not understand human behavior as well as he needs to. More importantly, the plan has barely begun and already it has derailed with the accident of Dr. Stephen Strange. The doctor's injuries and T'Challa's precarious state necessitated bringing in Dr. Cho and her precious cradle technology as well as several others. It can't be helped, but of course the wider the circle of observers and actors the more likely this will backfire on him and more importantly his grandfather.
Speaking of which he needs to go and see about him. It is just as well there is nothing more he can do here for now. And depending on the damage and recover he will need to set things up while he can before the product hits the fan. Speaking to Dr. Cho and leaving a message for any interested parties RODERICK exits the hospital only to enter a confusion of angles and paradoxical planes. Scanning the area relays a power source unlike any he has ever seen before. Also, a person shaped void obviously connected to said power source. A whine fills the air as he begins to power up his repulsors.
"Wait. I mean no harm, and quite frankly I may well need your help." The void materializes into a slender, bald Caucasian woman of interminable age dressed in orange garments of an Asian origin. "Are you Asgardian?" She laughs before giving something closer to a grimace than a smile – "I am human… more or less. I- I have lived a very long time. Longer than I should have, but my time is swiftly coming to an end. I have maybe a year or two left to me, and my best chance for a-a successor seems to be falling through my fingers. Because of you."
There is a moment of silence and then – "Fuck my existence."